


bergamot and oak

by idlesong



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exhibitionism, Kink Exploration, M/M, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 01:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20788349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesong/pseuds/idlesong
Summary: Taeyong can’t mind his own business due to his new problematic new fetish.





	bergamot and oak

It’s been a few months since Taeyong’s moved into this apartment, a vacancy happily coinciding with Taeyong’s need for a change. He had visited a few times—Yuta only lived there himself for half a year—but he knew well enough that he would like the space, and probably get along with the man occupying the other room.

Johnny had been a friend of Yuta’s since university, and it was convenient for the both of them to live together after graduation, although Yuta recently moving back to Japan for work had been the unexpected occurrence. Regardless, it all worked out for the best, considering Taeyong wanted to find a bigger place, even if he had to split the rent to afford it.

The initial obstacle was how _awkward_ he felt around his new roommate at times. He had met Johnny once or twice due to their mutual friend, but they never had reason to properly overlap except for the oft social occasion. Johnny is very friendly and outgoing, but Taeyong is not. For the first few weeks Taeyong felt stupidly shy around the other man because of his own forthcomings about how to interact with him.

(Admittedly, Taeyong finds him wildly attractive, but he’s good enough at separating those feelings from his mildly platonic relationship with Johnny.)

Even now, several months in, Taeyong can’t say that they’re exactly friends, but they’re friendly enough. They can make small talk without it feeling too forced and vaguely know what’s going on in the other person’s life. But they don’t hang out much. Maybe if they both have nothing to do on a Friday night they’ll watch a movie together at home. That’s about the extent of it.

Taeyong got used to this polite separation between them. They live together for convenience’s sake. Other than their apartment, little else is shared between them, and that includes the separate loads of laundry they do in their with their washer-dryer unit stowed away in the bathroom.

That was just their agreement, as with their dishes and toiletries, to keep things separate, more for Taeyong’s sake if anything. Taeyong values his privacy and his possessions.

Therefore it’s out of the ordinary for Taeyong to be holding one of Johnny’s shirts. It was on the floor in the shadow of the machines, so Taeyong supposes it had fallen there without his roommate noticing. Taeyong recognizes this purple t-shirt as the one Johnny often wears while lounging around. He probably sleeps in it.

The most striking feature of the shirt, however, has nothing to do with its appearance, but its scent. There’s a smell heavily embedded in the fabric, and without much thought, Taeyong brings the shirt closer to his nose.

The scent’s familiar enough, lingers throughout the household when Johnny’s flitting in and out of rooms. Taeyong can’t tell whether it’s from a body wash, or a cologne, or if it’s just a naturally gorgeous scent that Johnny possesses to match his good looks. Faced with it up close, Taeyong catches something citrus, like bergamot in an expensive Earl Grey, and something toasty, like well-seasoned oak for a fire.

It’s a nice scent, _really_ nice, and it makes Taeyong imagine Johnny, smelling sweet and warm and robust. Those things all suit Johnny, with his demanding yet unintimidating presence, his wide smiles and jovial laugh, his generous being.

However, Taeyong is mostly reminded of Johnny’s wide chest and his toned arms and how it’d feel to be pressed close to them. It brings a warm feeling to his stomach, one whose origin he realizes with mortification.

He throws the shirt into the barrel of the washer, wide-eyed, and slams the lid. Even knowing that Johnny won’t be home for hours, Taeyong takes a startled look around the apartment, concerned that someone might have seen him.

Taeyong values his privacy and his possessions, but he’s coming to learn that he may not respect those of others. He’s not proud of it, this blatant disregard for someone else’s things, but his actions have yet to go so far that he would admit to himself that this has become a problem.

The remaining room for self-degradation lets him escalate instead. What began as accident becomes weighed with intention, and spirals into the dizzying aroma of bergamot and oak.

It takes a few days for Taeyong to even bring himself to face Johnny. His roommate has no clue what transpired—Taeyong will sooner die before he admits it—but it is still incredibly embarrassing to interact with him in any manner. It’s akin to having a sex dream about one’s roommate. Except while conscious and entering the fantasy deliberately before frantically doing laundry to will away the unwelcome arousal.

After the problematic shirt had come out of the dryer, smelling overwhelmingly floral due to the extra fabric softener Taeyong had employed, he swiftly folded it and left it atop the bathroom counter for Johnny to find.

Had Taeyong been born a different person, he may have been able to overlook his self-loathing tendencies to return it in person, but he couldn’t bare the thought of having to confront Johnny within hours of what had occurred.

Apparently, he needed the rest of the week to recover. He doesn’t choose the moment to relieve himself of his isolation, but he forces himself to work up the courage when he hears the front door open. Taeyong’s in the kitchen, working with a hot pan, so he can’t exactly dash back to his bedroom as though he was never there.

“Hey,” he hears Johnny say, accompanied by the clatter of his keys against the counter. “It’s a scorcher today, huh?”

Taeyong has been making small talk about the weather for months, he can easily volley back this easy-going statement with one of his own. With one in mind, he looks up to make eye contact—as a normal person would—and immediately regrets it.

Johnny, in accordance with the humid weather he has just touched upon, is taking it upon himself to remove his long-sleeved dress shirt so he can remain in a black undershirt.

To Taeyong, it feels like it’s suddenly grown a lot hotter in the apartment. Ever since he realized his newfound attraction to how his roommate smells, it’s become much more difficult to ignore as it loitered in their shared spaces. Even worse, Taeyong’s taken to concentrate on it when it’s more prominent, in the bathroom after Johnny’s showered or in the kitchen after he’s made breakfast.

This…_thing_ of his is getting problematic.

“Smells good,” Johnny comments, and it makes Taeyong jump in terror. “Are you cooking with rosemary?”

Taeyong nearly doubles over in relief.

_Just this one time_, Taeyong is repeating in his head as he opens the washer’s door as quietly as he can. The thought had been circling in his mind for the past few hours as he tried to sleep, but he couldn’t get over it. Taking this one assertive, probably morally corrupt, action will allow him to get over it.

While brushing his teeth earlier in the night Taeyong had seen the laundry machine’s door slightly ajar, the sleeve of Johnny’s work shirt having been caught on the rim. Taeyong had scrunched his hand in the smooth fabric, before immediately retracting and shutting the door. The best thing for him was to forget about it.

That’s where he was at around 10 p.m. Now, at 1 a.m, his opinion has changed. When he presses the white fabric to his nose, he has to keep himself from sighing too loudly. Feelings of arousal and abashment conflict in his stomach, and Taeyong slowly sinks to a sitting position on the tiled floor to calm down.

He presses a hand to the front of his sweatpants, the one touch of relief that he’s allowed himself this whole week. A soft moan escapes his lips, muffled against the shirt pressed close to his face. The thought of anyone catching him like this, palming himself through his pants and already so desperate, makes his cheeks burn even redder with shame.

The thought of _Johnny_ catching him like this is unimaginable.

Taeyong’s hand goes past his waistband so he can jerk himself off without too much effort, turned on enough that he doesn’t need any additional comfort. His eyes close as he finishes, his head tipped back as though to let the woody scent of citrus to fall past his throat.

_Okay_, he thinks. Now he can get over it.

He doesn’t get over it. In fact, he’s somehow gone in the completely opposite direction of what he had intended after doing the mortifying thing he did a few nights prior.

It’s escalated, and Taeyong is fully aware how bad it is for him to be anticipating articles of Johnny’s clothing to be strewn about the apartment so he can get off. What’s funny is, prior to this, Taeyong has never considered himself to be particularly enamoured by one singular thing. He’s found people attractive before, but it’s never been some _thing_ like this before.

Those feelings he had harboured toward Johnny, those of finding him attractive but managing to compartmentalize them away from their relationship as roommates, are being affected by this newfound habit of Taeyong’s. Even knowing that he and Johnny are in the apartment at the same time can set him off.

He’s started to go out of his way to look for things of Johnny’s and he feels guiltier each time. And then one morning, he finds that Johnny’s moved his own laundry hamper into the bathroom entirely, and Taeyong almost loses his mind.

The day this development occurs, Johnny stops Taeyong in the kitchen to ask if he minds that the hamper is taking up space, and Taeyong stammers _not at all_ just a tad too quickly. Johnny looks mildly taken aback originally, but switches to that easy, handsome smile of his that makes Taeyong quiver.

He thinks about it later that night, when he’s quietly lifting the lid of his roommate’s laundry bin and taking out the first thing he sees. It turns out to be a towel, still slightly damp from when Johnny must have dried his hair with it. This is especially strong with the smell with which Taeyong has gotten so familiar, and he has to swallow uncomfortably before settling himself down on the floor again.

A part of him is certain that there’s no way this can end well for him. He’s trying his best to get over it by indulging himself, but it’s less of an itch and more of a vice.

The towel’s white terrycloth is scratchy from continuous washes, but Taeyong doesn’t care about that when he’s already half-hard. This is undoubtedly a problem, he repeats in his head every time, but it’s never said in a convincing enough voice for him to think of stopping.

He thinks about Johnny instead, and how unreasonably attractive he is. It shouldn’t be allowed for someone to be that handsome _and_ nice _and_ tall _and_ capable of snapping Taeyong in half. The thought of Johnny being close to him, overwhelming him with the emanating scent of bergamot and oak, makes Taeyong moan involuntarily as he comes into his hand, just narrowly missing the towel as it falls to the ground.

When he’s cleaning himself up, he stares at his own reflection with the intention of feeling contempt, but he only feels resignation. This is his life now, he supposes.

In retrospect, Taeyong should have been more careful, but he had grown so used to this routine that he grew less concerned with the always apparent risk.

There were only so many times of the week when he could be absolutely sure that he was alone in the apartment. He took those times to grab something of Johnny’s from his laundry bin or somewhere else in the apartment if it had been left lying around. Taeyong had yet to venture into Johnny’s room to fulfill his depraved needs—he was still holding himself to _some_ boundaries.

(And maybe those boundaries were tested that one time Taeyong had gotten off to Johnny’s Chicago Bulls beanie.)

Taeyong is especially worked up today. Johnny was running late this morning and frantically got ready, which involved him dashing around with damp hair and no shirt, his usual fragrance filling up the apartment. The image has been on Taeyong’s mind all fucking day. He could barely concentrate at work because of it, could hardly pay attention to anything said to him, to the exasperation of his supervisor.

Any other day he would have been more considerate, but the mundane data entry and spreadsheets can wait. And so can properly taking off his shoes when he gets home, when he opts to toe off the heels and shake them off his feet. So can checking to see what he’s grabbed from the bin today, and so can checking to see whether his door is shut the whole way.

Taeyong practically launches himself onto his mattress, the old bed frame creaking from the sudden impact. This could also be something of concern if he wasn’t already tugging his pants down to his knees. When he finally gets a chance to unfurl the wide-striped bundle of fabric next to him, he comes to realize that it’s a pillowcase, of all things.

He gives it a tentative sniff. It’ll do.

With one hand holding the pillowcase to his face, the other sneaks down into his boxers, his impatience outweighing all other factors of due process or dignity. The sigh of relief as he finally wraps his hand around his dick makes his chest rise, the resulting pressure in his stomach nearly painful. He keeps going like that for a little while, caring less about his comfort than his satisfaction.

There’s some lube in his nightstand, but he can’t be bothered to put in any more effort than spitting into the palm of his hand. He doesn’t want to keep himself away, not even for a moment. His eyes close as he inhales deeply, pressing the fabric so close to his nose it could be suffocating.

Maybe that’s what he really wants, he considers briefly, before his mind inches toward the real source of the problem: he wants Johnny. It’s the obvious conclusion, but his common avoidance of the concept is out of self-preservation. If he just fixates on his fetishization of how his roommate smells, he can think less about how it’s just one (albeit severe) part to how attracted he is to him.

Taeyong lets his imagination get away from him, just this one time, and lets the fantasy overwhelm him. He imagines it’s Johnny touching him, speaking softly into his ear, the low timbre of his voice making Taeyong’s skin prickle. Even the thought of Johnny’s gaze makes his face burn, the idea of him watching Taeyong make a mess of himself, be under his control without laying a finger on him, although Taeyong supposes that last bit’s already happened.

“Fuck,” Taeyong mutters lowly, pressing his upper body further into the mattress. He imagines that it’s Johnny’s hands holding him down instead, his larger frame hovering above him, intensely staring down at him with an unspoken authority that Taeyong is not allowed to break eye contact.

When he does speak, he would speak slowly and tauntingly, his usual jovial demeanour melted away for the sake of telling Taeyong how desperate he is for him. That thought makes Taeyong shiver. He’s known for a long time that abashment could make his mind smoulder. He’s only now realizing how bad it’s getting in this particular daydream.

“Please…Johnny…” he whimpers, his limbs clenching. He can feel himself getting close, his stomach stuttering from his breaths exiting at an increasing pace. The noise he makes as he finishes comes from the top of his chest, a hollow moan punctuated with a higher pitched whine.

He lowers the pillowcase from his face as he tries to steady his breathing, hoping to whatever god hadn’t yet abandoned him that he hadn’t gotten anything on it. His vision is cloudy when he opens his eyes, adjusting to the limited light in the room coming from the crack in his curtains and the windows in the living room spilling late-afternoon sunshine through the ajar door.

Except it’s darker than Taeyong remembers.

“Holy shit.”

Taeyong doesn’t need to raise his head. He’s already been dreading this exact moment but it doesn’t detract from how absolutely doomed he feels. He doesn’t need to look up to see who had just spoken, but he does.

And of course, it’s Johnny, foot halfway into the threshold of Taeyong’s room, hand on the doorknob as though he had been about to close the door.

Taeyong thinks he might die right there and then.

The next day is Saturday, and Taeyong wishes it wasn’t. He can’t escape to work, so he takes undeserving refuge in his room, waiting for the sound of the front door opening and closing. That would mean he can take at least an hour or two recuperating in an empty apartment, figuring out how to explain himself in a way that _doesn’t_ make him sound like a deviant.

Thinking about it all of last night didn’t yield anything fruitful. He’s been hoping that it was only due to the knowledge that Johnny is in the other room, probably shocked and disgusted and all of the reasonable shades of uncomfortable at what he walked in on.

Taeyong will probably have to leave the apartment. Maybe the country. He could go stay in Japan with Yuta, if the news doesn’t reach him by then.

Still curled into a defensive scrunched-up form in his sheets and although dreading doing so, he thinks about yesterday again. After looking to Taeyong and then taking a definitive glance at his own pillowcase in Taeyong’s hand, Johnny coughed out an apology for intruding, polite as he is, and closed the door. Taeyong heard the rapid stomps leading back to his room.

Taeyong had very quickly cleaned himself, considering himself lucky that the bathroom was closer to his room, and stayed in his bedroom for the rest of the evening until he fell asleep. His fuck-up was so tremendous that he knew he would have to take that time, minimum, to recover from the initial shock.

Fuck. Taeyong should have just kept to himself. He and Johnny had lived together for months with not a single problem until Taeyong ruined it upon the discovery of his problematic fixation. That day in the bathroom, he should have just left Johnny’s shirt on the floor, let it collect dust and not let it bother him.

The subproblem under his larger one right now is that Taeyong eventually needs to leave his room. He only has one other option, but that window is too small for him to fit through. He needs to face Johnny eventually. If he owns up to it in an assertive fashion maybe he can get in front of the narrative. _Haha, you caught me jacking off while holding one of your possessions and moaning your name. Anyway, how’s that weather lately?_ (Yeah, right, Taeyong isn’t a fucking idiot. Except he absolutely is.)

Taeyong gets all the way to his bedroom door before his judgement catches up to his actions. Should he really do this? He should, if only to place all of the blame on himself and have Johnny not feel as though he has to be cooped up in his own room all day. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door.

Johnny is sitting on the couch in the living room, leisurely reading. He lowers his book when Taeyong steps out of his room, expression unreadable.

“What’s up?” he asks casually.

“Not much,” Taeyong answers instinctually. The vibe in the room is throwing him off. Johnny doesn’t seem at all unnerved.

Having reached an acceptable point to stop, Johnny takes his time to bookmark his page before he sets his novel on the coffee table. He looks at Taeyong, the same expression on his face.

“So.” He pauses, folding his hands over his lap. “What did I walk into yesterday? Besides the obvious.”

Taeyong flushes. “Okay, I just want to say I’m sorry for invading your privacy I didn’t mean for it to get this bad and I promise I’m not some pervert—“

“Taeyong,” Johnny says, the deepness of his voice intimidating. “Answer my question.”

“I was…I was getting off to your smell,” Taeyong whispers in the tiniest voice he can muster. It’s so fucking embarrassing having to admit it outright.

“What’s so special about it?” Johnny asks, and when Taeyong looks to him in confusion, he adds, “It’s me, I deserve to know.”

“I can’t explain it. I don’t know if it’s your cologne or just _you_ but something about your like, _scent_ just really turns me on.” Taeyong’s face is so warm he might pass out, but he’s very mildly comforted by the fact that Johnny looks more intrigued than he does disgusted, as though he’s just pondering the idea.

“Okay.” Johnny waves him over. “I want to see.”

Taeyong startles. “Wh-What do you mean?”

“Just come sit here. I want to see,” he says. Taeyong doesn’t move, not until Johnny repeats his name in the same manner that makes his chest tremble.

Taeyong takes a reluctant seat on the opposite end of the couch. Even a few feet apart, he can get a whiff. But he remains still, which seems to perplex Johnny.

“If you don’t move, I’ll get closer,” Johnny says, shifting over and making Taeyong suddenly feel claustrophobic. “Come on. I thought you’d be more interested in the real thing.”

“It’s…embarrassing,” Taeyong mumbles, but Johnny’s _offering_, isn’t he? The distance between them shrunken, Taeyong realizes with shallow breaths that the scent is so much stronger than what would cling to clothing and air. Johnny hovering ever closer, as Taeyong resists drawing back, is overwhelming.

Fuck it. Taeyong takes a deliberate inhale, and his body reacts in trembles that he wishes he could hold back.

Johnny notices this, but he seems _amused_. He tilts forward, close enough that he and Taeyong’s legs press together. The proximity makes Taeyong let out a shuddery moan.

“Was it _just_ how I smell?” Johnny asks, smiling knowingly.

Taeyong shakes his head. “It’s you,” he says softly, then again. “It’s you.”

Johnny leans in close enough to press a chaste kiss against Taeyong’s lips, then pulls back, to the latter’s dismay. “I want to see you,” he says, and the cadence of the statement makes Taeyong even more flustered than he thought possible.

Taeyong presses his hand to the front of his pants, wincing at the small application of pressure. He’s so hard already. It’s humiliating. But Johnny’s still watching him expectantly, so he drops further down his seat to get his hand past his waistband. His face burns with the burgeoning knowledge that being watched makes it _better_.

Johnny is just staring at him, deeply concentrated on the motion of Taeyong’s hand sliding up and down his half-exposed cock. With little remaining shame, Taeyong tilts his head back and moans, after which the cushions beneath him shift. Johnny’s moved closer again, this time managing to extend his arms behind Taeyong to encase him between them.

“Fuck,” Taeyong hisses when Johnny presses a kiss against his neck. He feels light-headed, he can’t concentrate on any one thing when it’s all confronting him at once. This is the closest they’ve ever been, and that vindictive scent of bergamot and oak is meeting him at his end.

“Can I?” Johnny asks, pulling back the slightest amount to be able to stare dead-straight into Taeyong’s eyes.

Taeyong’s not sure what he’s asking until he feels another hand cover his own. He nods. Johnny indulges him. It’s all too much. He thinks he’s at his breaking point, unable to withhold any longer, when he hears Johnny speak lowly.

“You’re being so good for me.”

That’s what Taeyong designates as his definite breaking point. He comes over Johnny’s hand, still working him through his orgasm, and undoubtedly his clothes which he didn’t bother to think about when he was flung into this situation.

They take a moment to clean up, the attempt not entirely successful with a limited supply of tissue paper. Johnny withdraws when Taeyong’s breathing begins to settle, and continues to stare. It remains unnerving.

“What?” Taeyong asks meekly, the most self-conscious he’s ever been in his life.

Johnny laughs. “I had a feeling, you know. I got the vibe,” he says. “But you’re Yuta’s friend and we live together so I let it go. Then I hear you last night and it just brought everything back. I didn’t think it was ever going to happen, but here we are.”

“So, you don’t think I’m a freak?” Taeyong should already know the answer, but he needs to receive verbal confirmation.

“This is hardly worrying. It’s just a starting point.” Johnny says, patting his thigh.

“What does that mean?” Taeyong’s skin bristles in excitement at the implications.

“It means that we’ve found ourselves in a good compatible situation,” Johnny states matter-of-factly. “We can test your limits. If you’re willing.”

Taeyong nods so quickly his head may have rolled off his shoulders. Again, he thinks he might die, but for much better reasons this time.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! i've been meaning to finish this since july but, like always, got sidetracked >___> i have some more wips otw but uhhh we'll see when they're out lmao. take care!!
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/idle_song) | [curiouscat](http://curiouscat.me/idlesong)


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